


The Ghost of an Idea

by NewToTheWaywardParty



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Christmas Eve, Dean is a drama queen, Inspired by A Christmas Carol, Jack is too precious for this world, M/M, canon-divergence, season 13
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-17
Updated: 2018-04-17
Packaged: 2019-04-24 08:56:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14352180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NewToTheWaywardParty/pseuds/NewToTheWaywardParty
Summary: The fact that Bobby was dead must be firmly established to understand what happened to Dean that Christmas Eve when everything changed for the worse.And then, for the better.





	1. Stave One: Bobby's Ghost, Pt. I

Okay, first of all, Bobby was dead. There’s no doubt about it. He had taken a bullet in the fight against the Leviathans, haunted Sam and Dean through his old flask, and finally hitched a ride out of hell through Purgatory before settling in Heaven. Then he busted out of Heaven for the chance to help the boys on one last mission. Bobby was as dead as a doornail. Dean knew it better than most. After all, Dean killed ghosts by trade, and had served his own stints in Heaven, Hell, and Purgatory.

The fact that Bobby was dead must be firmly established to understand what happened to Dean that Christmas Eve when everything changed for the worse.

And then, for the better.

——————————————-

Sam burst in the door of the bunker, stomping snow from his boots. Dean looked up from his laptop, startled, as Sam pulled the tip of a comically huge spruce tree through the metal door. A struggle between Sam, the tree, and an unseen force almost pitched Sam down the steep flight of stairs into the bunker. It was resolved successfully when Jack popped through the door like a cork holding the spruce’s trunk, wide grin plastered on his boyish face.

Dean gaped as his brother and the nephilim maneuvered the tree down the stairs. Sam hoisted the tip up as Jack dropped the trunk to the ground. The spruce was dark green, and even taller than Sam. Jack was practically bursting, hands on hips of his plaid flannel thermal jacket, cheeks pink from exertion and cold. “We got a tree!” he announced happily with obvious pride.

Dean felt his chest constrict with a familiar yet unwanted feeling he got whenever Jack was guileless and earnest. It reminded Dean a bit too much of his favorite angel, Cas. That wasn’t a reminder he wanted or needed right now. Instead of following his impulse to slap the kid on the back in congratulations, Dean shoved out his chair and grabbed his empty beer bottle.

“No shit” Dean barked, ignoring Sam’s reproving glare. What did Jack want, a fucking medal? It was a goddamned tree, not the cure for cancer. Who cared if Jack had helped to defeat Michael and Lucifer and had restored order to the dimensions? Nobody got merit badges in this line of work. At least, no one ever gave him one, thought Dean nastily.

“I see you’ve still got your panties in a twist,” Sam said, throwing off his coat. Jack was busy setting up the tree stand. His grin had frozen a little at Dean’s dismissal, but his Christmas spirit seemed undeterred. He almost vibrated with good cheer as he hummed what Dean would never admit to recognizing as a Mariah Carey Christmas pop tune while he worked. Sam angled his body towards Dean, pitching his voice conspiratorially. “Is this still about that hunt last month?”

Dean’s face closed so fast against Sam’s understanding, sympathetic manner it practically clanged shut. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Sammy” Dean replied. He turned on his heel and made a beeline for the kitchen. Between near-constant alcohol consumption and sleep deprivation brought on by relentless travel and hunting, Dean had been almost completely successful at blocking out what had happened on that hunt. Almost.

Dean ditched his empty beer bottle and rummaged in the bunker’s kitchen cabinets. His intake had been particularly heavy lately. Christmas Eve was a terrible time to run out of Hunter’s Helper. He should have asked Sam to pick some up when they were off singing carols and ice skating or whatever other Peanuts Christmas nonsense he had been up to with Jack in town. Fuck it, there had to be some ancient shit buried back in one of these cabinets, he thought desperately.

“Dean” Sam’s voice came from the doorway, where he leaned, arms crossed. Relentless bastard. “You’ve always loved Christmas. You’re usually the one wheedling me about it. I figured you’d be in here cooking gingerbread and cueing up Die Hard for Jack, making ‘ho ho ho now I’ve got a machine gun’ jokes. What crawled up your ass and died?” Sam’s face was a mixture of kicked puppy and nagging parent.

Dean whirled on him, jaw clenched. “Things change. People change.” Dean shrugged, trying to think of an excuse. Anything but the real reason. “We’re not exactly religious, and that normal apple-pie stuff just isn’t for us. We’ve got work to do, remember?” He turned away to continue rummaging for any alcohol, anything hard at all, to obliterate his memories of Cas and the hunt gone sideways and now this goddamn argument with his brother who just wouldn’t leave well enough alone.

Sam shook his head. “That’s exactly why we need this, Dean. Now more than ever.” Now that Mom was gone again, went unspoken but sat in the air between them. “This is Jack’s first real Christmas,” Sam continued with the air of a man laying down an ace “and I wanted it to be special. Pull out all the stops.”

“Ha!” exclaimed Dean, partially in response to Sam, and partly in triumph at unearthing an ancient bottle of cooking sherry. He unscrewed it and took a whiff, recoiling in disgust. “What are you going to do, put him in footie pajamas and hang out his stocking for Santa?” Dean said in a mocking tone. He put his lips to the bottle and swigged, wincing at the burn.

“Why the fuck not?” challenged Sam, throwing his hands up in exasperation. “Just because you and Cas had a fight doesn’t mean we shouldn’t show Jack the spirit of the holidays-”

Dean did an honest-to-Chuck spit-take, spraying gross cooking sherry all over the clean tabletop. “Cas and I did not have a fight, I told you.” Dean growled, low and dangerous. “He just flapped off to do some angel shit after the hunt. Like always. I’m not his keeper.”

Sam nodded. “Good to hear. I guess you won’t mind that I invited him, then.” Sam’s eyebrow quirked, questioning.

Dean minutely tightened his grip on the bottle’s neck. “What?” he gritted out through clenched teeth, even though he was sure he heard Sam just fine.

Sam threw his hands up again. “For Christ’s sake, Dean. It’s Christmas eve. We’re gonna decorate the tree, have a few brews, order Chinese take-out, watch a shitty movie, and exchange convenience-store-bought presents. You wanna boycott? Fine. But this is happening. With or without you.” Sam looked at him with something approaching pity. “Maybe you could get cleaned up. Join us?” Sam’s gaze narrowed to the bottle in Dean’s hands pointedly.

Dean scoffed and brushed past Sam. He retreated to his room to nurse the sherry while cranking up Metallica in his headphones. Dean closed his eyes, head leaned back against the headboard. The images memories rose, unbidden.

He and Cas, in sync as any dance partners, gracefully extinguishing a rugaru. The tang and buzz of sweat and adrenaline. Cas’ eyes sparkling in the dancing flames of the rugaru’s immolated corpse. Dean grinning, clapping Cas on the back, inviting him for a celebratory drink. Thighs bumping together below the bar as they downed shots. Eyes locking, lingering. Speech dwindling. Dean slapping money on the bar. Walking back to the motel room. Cas’ hand grazing Dean’s low back. Cas’ breath hot on the back of his neck. Dean fumbling, drunk, with the key, opening the door. Turning to push it shut, reaching past Cas’ shoulder. Cas standing there, in his space, (or was Dean in Cas’ space?) quiet and still, staring. Always staring.

Dean tilted the sherry bottle for a swig, but it was empty. Due to his recent semi-permanent bender, his tolerance was so high he wasn’t even buzzed yet. He dropped the bottle unceremoniously to the floor and grabbed his duffel.

Dean stopped short on his way to the Impala at the sight of three figures decorating the tree. Sam was on the floor untangling some old-school large-bulb multi-colored lights from a garage sale box. Jack was at the table, unpacking car air fresheners from their clear plastic bags to hang on the branches. 

And next to him stood Cas. Rumpled trench, blue tie, messy hair, the whole nine. Standing there looking gorgeous and distant, as usual. He smelled like cold, fresh air. He had probably just arrived, Dean thought, blowing in on the December breeze. Cas raised his chin minutely. “Hello, Dean.”

Dean worked his tongue to gather enough saliva for speech. Cas’ gaze, intense as ever, raked Dean up and down. Dean flushed, realizing he hadn’t shaved in days, was wearing dirty sweats and smelled like a locker room after a kegger. His eyes scratched in a way indicating they were probably bloodshot, too. Shit. Just the way he wanted this to go. Impressive, Winchester.

“Hey,” Dean managed finally. If Jack and Sam thought the situation was awkward, at least they had the decency to stay quiet.

Cas’ eyes fell on Dean’s duffel and narrowed. “Are you going somewhere?” he asked, raising his eyebrows, looking almost…hurt?

Dean scrubbed his scruff with a hand. “Yeah, uh, hunt. Some of us actually care about saving people, hunting things, remember?” Good one, Dean, he thought. Passive aggression. Not just for 1950s housewives anymore.

Sam scoffed aloud. “C’mon, man, Cas just got here. You’ve been hunting nonstop for the past month. You just got back. Take one day off to be with the people you love.”

Cas looked surprised at the mention of Dean’s hunting schedule. Dean ignored that and zeroed in on Sam with cold eyes. “Love, huh? ‘Love will save the day. Love will find a way. Love heals all wounds.’ Yay, love!” snarked Dean, dripping sarcasm. 

Sam’s face hardened into bitch mode, rock solid. Dean hoped, with venom, that it stuck that way. “Like our brotherly love?” Dean waved his index finger back and forth between his little brother and himself. “So codependent we have no other functional relationships? How we’ve screwed the world a hundred times over to save each other?” Sam sputtered like an engine with a dead battery, gearing up to respond, but Dean was too fast, whirling on Jack.

“Hey kid, remember your mom? No? Me neither, at least not really. Not Mary Version 1.0.” Dean knew he’d gone too far. Knows he was way out of line. Yet he didn’t seem to care enough to stop himself, even when he saw Cas tense out of the corner of his eye. “You know why? Oh, that’s right. They died and left us. Hell, mine died on me a few times over. They loved us, but it didn’t save ‘em. Didn’t leave us any less alone. And our fathers…well, even Cas is in the Deadbeat Daddy club.” Jack rocked back as though Dean had physically slapped him, but Dean wasn’t frozen mid-air in nephilim sound waves, and Jack’s eyes hadn’t glowed yellow, so Dean figured he was still golden. Ha.

“And you,” Dean said, turning to Cas but keeping his eyes shut so he didn’t have to look at him. “How haven’t we hurt each other yet?” Dean pointed his gaze at his shoes, unable to confront whatever expression Cas is wearing. “We’ve lied to protect each other, betrayed each other, gotten each other tortured and killed…shit, Cas, we even tried to kill each other a few times. But sure, yeah, let’s exchange presents by the fireplace, drink some nog, and have a Merry Fucking Christmas!”

Dean grabbed his coat from a chair at the table in the stunned silence. He started stomping up the metal stairs.

“Dean. You don’t want to be alone on Christmas. Don’t do this. Don’t push us away.” It was Sam, of course. He sounded so reasonable. Kind. Gentle. He deserved so much better than Dean. They all did.

Dean looked over the railing and saw them standing, frozen, in the positions they had been in when he had begun his tirade. Sam’s face was unspeakably sad. Cas’ gaze was down and away from Dean, like he was really fascinated with something in a corner of the library. Jack’s eyes were wide and wet.

Dean turned away and opened the door. He did not stomp, sigh, or yell. He did not slam the door as he closed it behind him. He did not say what was in his heart, the fundamental truth that ruled his life. A song stuck on repeat: Better to be alone than be left alone, better to be the one leaving than getting left, better to be the one pushing rather than getting pushed away.


	2. Stave One: Bobby's Ghost, Pt. II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean's visited by Bobby's Ghost

Dean bypassed the local bar, but made a purchase at the liquor store (not imbibing yet). He rambled west for another two-and-a-half hours on state highways, avoiding I-70 and its Christmas eve traffic. When he finally pulled into Colby, Kansas (last chance at civilization before the Colorado border) the only three chain motels in town flashed ‘No Vacancy’ signs.  _No Room at the Inn_ , Dean thought; fitting. Navigating Baby onto the frontage road, Dean found a small hunter’s (quail and pheasant, not monster) motel staffed by an extremely grouchy family. Well, at least the father-slash-owner was grouchy. Probably because, hello, it was the middle of the night on Christmas Eve. Dean paid for the only room left, a smoking double, and took the plastic ovoid key holder.

The potholed parking lot was so dark Dean almost couldn’t see the room number. The key dropped into the gravel and he cursed, stooping to pick it up.

“Idjit” said a grizzled voice somewhere above him. Dean startled, hitting his head on the doorknob.  _What the fuck was that?_  The sherry must have fucked him up more than he had thought. That or sleep deprivation. Whatever, he just wanted to lie down, get his four hours of beauty rest before putting more distance between himself and his problems.

He finally got the door opened and whispered a curse, his breath smoking in the cold air. Dean had stayed in some truly ugly motels, but this place was just disgusting. A shaggy 1970s carpet that looked to have once been a shade of blue, but now was a dingy gray, covered the floor. At least, it mostly did, except for the holes where it was so worn the floorboards literally showed through.

Dean entered the room and flicked on the oppressive fluorescent light, which buzzed in that special migraine-inducing way. He threw his duffel on the first bed and pulled back the acrylic blanket (powder blue, also faded grey except for its poly-satin trim) and blanched when he saw a dead roach under the cover. He grimaced, pulled the blanket up, and flopped down on top of the bed. He didn’t even want to venture into the bathroom. The whole place smelled like a stale ashtray.

Dean sighed and crossed his legs, pulling out his phone to find a local pizza delivery place. He placed an order (pineapple and ham, just to be spiteful.) He considered getting in the Impala and finding a quiet rest stop to sleep overnight to escape the probable bedbugs he was risking here, but the temperature was just low enough to make that option dangerous. This place was cheap and gross, but then again, no better than what he deserved. He then picked up the remote and discovered the TV (so old it looked like it still had tubes) only carried four local channels. He was still flipping idly through them when a knock came at the door.

Dean swiped his wallet from his rear right pocket as he opened the door, but abruptly dropped it mid-motion and moved, instead, to pull his gun from his rear waistband.

Bobby Singer stood outside his door, pizza in hand.

Before Dean could pull the trigger, the apparition brushed past him. Or rather, through him, as Bobby was completely insubstantial. Chilly, but not freezing cold. “Put the damn gun down, boy. I’m not that kinda ghost.” Bobby said, and dropped the pizza box on the first bed, as there was no table in the dingy room beyond the tiny TV stand. “Eat up before the vermin get it,” Bobby ordered, as Dean gaped.

Dean shook his head in disbelief. “Bobby? What…how…” Dean closed the door but didn’t put his gun down. He did lower it, though. Bobby’s eyes tracked it below his trucker cap.

“Salt wouldn’t do ya any good, anyway. I’m not that kind of ghost, I told you.” Bobby shrugged.

Dean was still gobsmacked. “What are you doing here? Aren’t you supposed to be in heaven?”

Bobby chuckled. “Well, I got a hall pass, I guess you could say.” He scratched his beard a bit, looking sheepish. “And I’m here for you, Dean.”

Dean narrowed his eyes. “I don’t believe it. This is some sort of trick. What are you?” He rose, striding across to his duffel for a test kit of silver, holy water.

Bobby rose his hand placatingly as Dean passed, and it ran completely through him again. “Relax, boy. You can’t test me if I’m a freaking apparition. Why not just believe your eyes?” Bobby indicated his form which, while clad in plaid was rather see-through. It made Dean’s eyes water to discern the plaid’s pattern on Bobby’s back clashing with the pattern on Bobby’s front, both clearly visible at the same time.

Dean shook his head. “You could just be a bit of poisoning from the rotgut sherry that was past-date. Or maybe a hallucination brought on by some toxic bug-bomb this roach motel set off in here. Or I’m asleep and dreaming. Or I’ve finally gone nuts-”

“For crying out loud!” Bobby interrupted loudly, standing and staring Dean down, or up, rather, since he was of shorter stature than the living hunter. “Would you stop yapping for a minute and just listen? I didn’t break out of heaven and orchestrate this whole plan just to listen to you bitch and moan. You eat weird for breakfast. I’m here, and I’m not a vengeful spirit, so deal with it.”

“Plan?” Dean asked in a cautious tone. “Why do I have a bad feeling about this?”

Bobby rolled his eyes. “Down, boy. I just came back here to give you a friendly warning. It’s about Heaven. You’ve been, remember?”

Dean nodded. He remembered. Happy memories, whatever those were, supposedly made up his Heaven. Setting off fireworks with Sam, breakfast with his mother, and that was all he saw before finding out his brother’s happiest memories didn’t include him, Dean. “Happy memories?” Dean inquired, raising his eyebrows at Bobby in a question.

“Yeah. I get to read and drink whiskey in my living room back at the salvage yard. Alone.” Bobby heaved a sigh. “It’s boring and lonely as hell.”

Dean snapped his head toward Bobby, curious. “Karen’s not there with you?”

Bobby flinched. “Sometimes. Only soul-mates share heavens, and apparently I wasn’t hers.” Bobby slumped his shoulders. “Once in a while I get to hunt in the woods with kid-you and kid-Sam. Even more rarely, I get to pal around with Rufus. Don’t really get to see any of you as often as I’d like.”

Dean swallowed. “Sounds kinda lonely, Bobby.” he said carefully. “But hey, it beats the alternative, right?” Dean’s smile was thin. He wanted reassurance for himself as much as for Bobby.

The old man fixed him with hard eyes. “I’m not here to comfort you. I’m here to scare you.” He stood, walking past the old TV, which did not flicker like electronics normally did in the presence of a ghost. “You need to start planning for your future, Dean. No one lives forever, not even Winchesters.”

Dean took the opportunity to engage in some macho posturing, firming his shoulders and sticking out his chest. “Since when has that ever bothered us? I know the score. We gave up playing Happy Families a long time ago. There’s no time to worry about the future when we’re trying to save people and avert the next apocalypse every other month.”

Bobby shook his head in resignation. “Damn, but you’re a stubborn ass. Might as well be listening to myself talk. Don’t you get it? The memories you make here? That’s all you get up there!” Bobby jabbed his finger at the stained motel ceiling. Then he grabbed Dean’s jacket and pulled him close, somehow gripping him iron-tight, despite his semi-opaque hands. “You gotta make the time now or you’ll regret it later. I sure do, and I was married! At least I had you boys! What are you gonna have, Dean? Have you ever thought of that?”

Dean avoided Bobby’s gaze and stared down at a cigarette hole in the blue shag carpet. He swallowed. “I had Lisa and Ben…and I have Sam and Jack-”

“Bullshit!” exploded Bobby, ghost spittle flying through Dean’s face, cold, instead of flecking his skin. “That’s some weak-ass tea and you know it. Saving the world don’t matter a lick if there’s nothing in this world worth living for. I’m here to save you from my fate, Dean. Take a chance while you’ve still got it. Live a little now to build something worth spending an eternity in.” Bobby’s face was pleading, up close, chilling him both physically and mentally, and Dean couldn’t take it.

“Okay, okay,” Dean raised a hand, and realized he was trembling. “All right, Bobby, whatever you need, okay?”

Bobby dropped him abruptly, turning toward the door so Dean couldn’t see his face. “I’m sending you three messengers. Listen to what they have to say, Dean.” Bobby’s tone brooked no argument. He passed the pizza box and picked up the fifth of whiskey in its paper bag that Dean had snagged at the liquor store by the bunker. “I’ll be taking this, too,” he said, and walked straight through the door without opening it.

Dean stared after him for a few moments. Then he crossed the room to open the door. No one was in the dark parking lot. Dean returned to sit on the bed, fully dressed, and turned off the TV. He had lost his appetite and left the pizza untouched. Fatigue suddenly dragged at him. He flung an arm across his eyes and passed out


	3. Stave Two: The First of the Three Spirits, Pt. I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean pulled the window open. Let’s kick this in the ass, he thought. “So you’re Bobby’s first messenger?” he asked.
> 
> “That’s right, sweetheart” Jo replied, her eyes twinkling with mischief. “I’m the Ghost of Christmas Past.” She spread her arms wide. She always had a flair for the dramatic, Dean reflected.

When Dean awoke, it was so dark he couldn’t make out the rickety TV stand in the ratty motel room. He blindly fumbled on the nightstand for his phone and checked the time, his eyes squinting against the blue glare of the screen.

To his astonishment, it read 11:58 p.m. Dean had passed out around two in the morning. He swiped his screen to wake it up, checking the date next to the time.  _Had he actually passed out and slept all the way through the day and into the next night?_  No, the date still read December 24.

Dean stumbled out of bed and groped his way to the window, pulling aside the curtains, upsetting a cloud of dust that rained cigarette ash smell into the room, clouding his vision and making him cough. When the fine powder settled, Dean almost shrieked. Jo Harvelle stood just outside the window.

She stood still as a statue, unblinking yet unmenacing. Her hair was long and golden, carefully arranged in gentle waves. Mindless of the cold, she wore not her usual hunter’s jeans but rather a long, white sundress, the kind Dean knew chicks sometimes wore to outdoor music festivals. The dress was cinched with a southwestern-style silver concho belt, studded with turquoise. Her well-worn shit-kickers completed the ensemble, Dean noted with a small smile.  _You could take the girl out of hunting, but you couldn’t take the hunter out of the girl._

The weirdest part was, she seemed to glow from the inside out with a strange light, making her appear both younger and older than when Dean had known her at the Roadhouse and, later, on hunts together. The light emanated strongest from her head, which was just weird. Dean held his arm up like a visor to protect his hungover eyes as he tried to see which version (childlike or ancient) she really was, but it made him dizzy and sick. He was going to blame the sherry.

Dean pulled the window open.  _Let’s kick this in the ass_ , he thought. “So you’re Bobby’s first messenger?” he asked.

“That’s right, sweetheart” Jo replied, her eyes twinkling with mischief. “I’m the Ghost of Christmas Past.” She spread her arms wide. She always had a flair for the dramatic, Dean reflected.

“Can you maybe-” Dean waved his other hand to indicate her head, shining like a beacon in the dark parking lot.

“Fine,” she sighed, producing a straw cowgirl hat with a colored beaded band from somewhere and placing it on her head. The light dampened considerably so that Dean could look at her through narrowed eyelids. “But it’s not my fault you can’t look at it.” She pouted a bit, and looked every bit the young woman she had been all those years ago at the Roadhouse in Nebraska. Dean shook that memory away, trying to clear his head.

“Uh,” Dean began.  _Articulate as always._  “So what’s the game plan, here?” The frigid air was beginning to make him shiver, even fully dressed as he had fallen asleep. He grabbed his own arms to stop his shivering.

Jo gave him a lopsided smile. “C’mon Dean. I know you like to pretend to be dumber than a post, but I know you’ve at least seen  _Scrooged_.”

Dean shrugged noncomittally. He was a huge Bill Murray fan. Of course he had seen it, but he wasn’t going to give anything up easily. He was even more reluctant to admit he had seen  _A Muppet Christmas Carol_  back at the bunker with Cas. They had sat together on Dean’s bed, comfortable with beer and Funyuns. Dean’s heart clenched as he remembered fielding Cas’ questions. “How can a Pig and a Frog be romantically attracted to each other? How do they reproduce? This movie is extremely scientifically inaccurate, Dean.”

“Let’s go, Dean” Jo said, now seeming older again, confident and immune to Dean’s bullshit, holding out her hand through the window. “We’re burning time here.”

Dean took her hand, a little unsure how she expected him to scramble through the windowsill, high above the ancient radiator. Once they touched, though, he found himself floating, perfectly warm, through the air with her, flying above the Western Kansas countryside. The highway stretched out below them, and Dean could see wind turbines like a field of white sunflowers, their red air safety lights blinking at the top. It was like looking down onto a field of twinkling red Christmas lights.

“I can’t believe you Superman’d me!” Dean shouted over the rushing wind. He couldn’t help grinning widely as they soared over the Flint Hills, the lack of moonlight making their rolling curves seem sharper and deeper.

Jo laughed, a childish bubbling sound. “Can You Read My Mind?” She intoned in mock-serious tones.

Dean rolled his eyes. “You’re no Lois Lane, Joanna Beth.” He glanced down to see Mount Oread speeding toward them, the red-tiled roofs of the limestone University buildings visible even in the gloom. “Hey, this is Lawrence!” he exclaimed in recognition. “I grew up near here,” he said, even as they glided over his old elementary school, the playground where he had first learned to swing, pumping his little legs forward and back. It felt like flying. Dean experienced an unfamiliar physical sensation, one which he was unaccustomed to feeling, except on rare occasions of peace with Sam, and of course whenever he and Cas shared companionable moments, like when they had worked that case in Dodge City. He felt light in a way that had nothing to do with the magic of soaring through the air with Jo.

Jo steered them lower until they almost hit the roofs of the houses on the suburban block. “Do you know where you are?” She asked.

“Yeah,” Dean nodded. “Sam and I actually worked a case here about ten years back.” He blinked and somehow they were in the living room. He would have been more panicked but time travel had kind of becoming routine for him. Nevertheless, he was still amazed, taking in all the detail his memory had forgotten over the years. An afghan of multicolored granny squares adorned the avocado green and harvest gold plaid couch. A modest tree, draped with tinsel, stood by the window. Dean’s eyes fell to the carnage of empty boxes and wrapping paper under it.

“Oh wow! My Big Wheel!” He ran a hand over the red, yellow, and blue tricycle. “I totally forgot about this! And my G.I. Joe, man, he was so cool.” Dean picked up the action figure (no, it was totally  _not_  a doll,  _thankyouverymuch_ ) and made shooting noises with its little gun. He turned, dropping it, as his eyes widened. “Oh, whoah, I totally remember this-” He started toward the object of his attention when he was interrupted by a man walking into the room.

He wore wide-leg light-wash jeans cinched with a brown belt with a large buckle. His western-style plaid shirt was tight with pearlescent buttons. His hair was shaggy (almost as long as Sam’s now), his face clean-shaven, but Dean would know him anywhere.

“Dad?” Dean breathed. His chest hitched. His Dad did not acknowledge them in any way. Jo placed a reassuring hand on Dean’s arm.

“They can’t hear or see us” she said, a too-kind expression on her face.

“Dean! Get in here, son. I found what I was looking for” John Winchester called. For the first time, Dean noticed the cardboard album cover in John’s hands. A small boy, little more than a toddler, careened into the living room, rushing into his dad’s arms with a squeal. He had a blonde bowl haircut, chunky cheeks, and brown corduroy jeans. Dean flinched, instinctively guarding against John’s reaction. His father only gathered the boy up in a bear hug and roared.

“All right, little monster,” John said, after setting young Dean down on the braided rug. “I want to show you how to use this new tool.” Dean’s mouth fell open as the man indicated the toy adult Dean had been wanting to get his hands on, an orange plastic Fisher-Price record player in its own portable case, designed for young hands.

With patience Dean had never seen John Winchester use anytime in his conscious memory, his father explained, step-by-step to his child self how to carefully place the vinyl on the turntable, turn it on, and place the needle. The album in use was John Denver’s  _Poems, Prayers, & Promises_. After completing his explanation, John kindly coached young Dean through the steps himself, praising the child when he did something correctly, and gently correcting him when he forgot the order of steps or was too rough. Preschool Dean beamed, eyes gleaming, when “Sunshine on my Shoulders” began playing from the player’s tiny speakers. John patted him on the shoulder, silently approving.

“Boys!” came a voice from the kitchen. “Supper’s almost ready.” Dean’s mother appeared at the doorway, wiping her hands on a kitchen towel. Mary’s skin was flushed from the heat of cooking. She was lovely and warm, just as Dean remembered. “Go get washed up now” she said, in a not-at-all-stern tone, putting her hands on her hips, her belly heavy with Sam, who would be born in the spring. Dean drank her in greedily. This was Christmas 1982. Dean was just three years old. This was his last Christmas with his mom. Their last Christmas as a family. Before…

Jo interrupted him. “What’s that on your cheek, Dean?”

Dean sniffed “Sweat. It’s too damn hot in here.” Jo pretended not to see him discreetly swipe at his eyes with the back of a sleeve. He resumed watching as his small family gathered around the oak table piled high with ham, mashed potatoes, stuffing, and of course, his mom’s homemade apple pie. Little Dean sat in a green molded plastic booster, eating enthusiastically with his Bert and Ernie and Big Bird silverware, his parents chatting happily on either side. Dean shook his head. “Poor kid,” he uttered under his breath.

“What’s wrong?” asked Jo. She raised an eyebrow knowingly.

“I just…” Dean struggled to find the words. I barely remember this, but at least I had it once. Sam never had it all, even though I tried my best. Now it’s Jack’s first Christmas, and…” he shrugged, stuffing his hand in his pockets. “I just wish I had maybe stuck around; shown him a good one. Like this.”

Jo smiled thoughtfully and waved her hand. “Let’s blow this popsicle stand” she said brightly, and suddenly they were in a different living room. Dean recognized the tan velour couch instantly. This was Sonny’s farmhouse, the boy’s home where he had spent a couple of months in 1995 after he had gotten nabbed for stealing food for Sam. Teen-aged him sat on the couch, sucking face with Robin.

Dean whirled on Jo. “What the hell? This wasn’t even at Christmas!”

“Your history didn’t leave a plethora of choices. We had to make do with what we had.” Jo shot back, defensively.

“We?” inquired Dean.

Jo gave him a sharp smile. “When Bobby Singer calls, I answer.” She shrugged. “Plus, I’m not gonna pass up the chance to work one last case with a Winchester.” She winked at him, then nudged his arm. “Shhh, or you’ll miss it.”

They turned back to the teenagers making out on the couch. They were discussing the upcoming school dance. “I’m not going anywhere, Robin.” Grown-up Dean winced at those words. He knew how much he meant them at the time. How quickly he’d forget them once John showed up with Sam in tow. Sam would come first, before anything else, for a long time after that.

“She was your first love.” Jo said, a soft look on her face. Dean’s face didn’t leave young Robin. He nodded.

“You never loved anyone like this again.” stated Jo. She looked older now, tired and sad.

Dean whipped his head toward her. “I have so!” he retorted.

“Not like this,” said Jo. “Not in that whole, pure, unguarded way.” The scene around them shifted. Sixteen-year-old Dean was tying his tie over that dorky short-sleeved dress shirt, and Sonny was telling him his father was here to take him away.

“This was the moment, Dean.” Jo said, voice low and deliberate. “The moment you discovered giving your heart to someone could mean getting it broken.” Dean’s tracked his young self helplessly as he went to the window, looking out at John and Sam. Followed the boy,  _he was just a kid_ , as he shook hands, brave face through tears with Sonny. Jo continued: “You always held yourself back after this. Cassie, Lisa, anyone else; you never really let them in.”

Dean grit his teeth and whirled on Jo. “Good talk, Russ. Next stop?” Jo touched his hand and they stood on the shore of a lake Dean had never wanted to see again in his life or any other. He barely had time to draw a breath before his eyes landed on Cas, blade sticking through his check, blue light escaping his mouth and eyes.  _Shit._


	4. Stave Two: The First of the Three Spirits, Pt. II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Don’t play dumb, Dean,” said Jo shoving his arm lightly. “That story was never about loving Christmas. It was about greed.”
> 
> “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, Jo, but I’m not exactly Mr. Moneybags. What the hell does greed have to do with any of this?” Dean waved his arm at the hugging couple next to the phone booth.

“No fucking way,” Dean ground out, turning his back on his past self kneeling over Cas’ dead body. He shouldered Jo roughly out of the way. “Peace out, Jo. We’re done here.” Dean walked away from the lake house quickly. **  
**

Jo raised a slender wrist and snapped her fingers. The breeze stilled, all noise ceased, as time stood still. In an instant, she was in front of Dean, golden light shining through the straw weave of her cowgirl hat.

“I’m running out of time here, Dean. We’re not doing this to hurt you. It’s just the mission. I’ll speed it up if you can hang in there and we’ll get through this.” She placed a gentle hand on his arm. She managed to convey warmth through her ghostly cold fingers.

Dean stared at her a long moment, then nodded his assent. “What do I gotta do?”  _The only way is through._

Jo took a breath. “Don’t watch him. Watch you.” Her chocolate brown eyes searched his. “Watch your face, Dean.”

He swallowed and turned back to the scene by the lake, focusing his attention on his face. Watching his past self as an outside observer made Dean feel really weird, but if that was his ticket back into his bed, fine.

He was kneeling, disbelief written across his features. His eyes slid off sideways, unfocused in a look of profound loss.

Jo had indeed pressed fast-forward as he was zapped to a sunlit parking lot behind the Pirate Pete’s. Dean took in his past self’s defeated body language, shoulders hunched. “And now you’re gonna bring him back.” he heard himself utter in prayer. Dean’s mouth fell open. He hadn’t been consciously aware of saying those words. Had been sure he had said “them.”  _Him._  Jo switched the scene before his hissy fit punching the bathroom sign, thank Chuck.

Nope, his gratitude was premature because now they were in a mission-style living room. A sheet-draped figure lay on the dining room table. Dean watched himself twitch off the shroud and look away, swallowing back tears. Dean watched himself tear the sheer drapes from the windows to bind Cas’ body. Watched himself stop, overcome, forcing breaths.

 _Zap_. Sam, Jack, and Dean stood by a pyre. Dean’s face etched with nothing less than grief. He looked utterly and completely lost. It took his breath away to behold it.

 _Zap_. Dean’s face, contorted with rage, was yelling “what about Cas?” at Sam in the bunker.  _Zap_. A smirking, jovial mask of sarcasm was directed at Sam in a shrink’s office.  _Zap_. He was on his knees in a stairway, plunging a needle into his heart, looking up at Sam with a terrifyingly blank expression.  _Zap_ , he was on the phone in Baby, driving in the dark. A beam of light shone over his face at the exact moment he realized Cas was back, and Dean’s breath was stolen away by the hope he saw on his features.  _Zap_. Dean was hugging Cas by a phone booth with both arms, eyes closed, small smile on his lips as he angled his face towards Cas’ neck.

 _Snap_. Jo froze the tableau there and Dean nudged the toe of his boot into the dirt. “That was a fun trip down memory lane” Dean said, wielding his sarcasm as a shield. That had been a fucking journey, to be sure.

Jo shrugged, her golden waves shifting. “It is what it is. Or was. Don’t blame me.”

“I don’t get what all that had to do with Christmas anyway?” Dean cast about, looking for any place to vent his discomfort at the emotional roller-coaster that had been the past few minutes.

“Don’t play dumb, Dean,” said Jo shoving his arm lightly. “That story was never about loving Christmas. It was about greed.”

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, Jo, but I’m not exactly Mr. Moneybags. What the hell does greed have to do with any of this?” Dean waved his arm at the hugging couple next to the phone booth.

Jo twisted her mouth thoughtfully. “You’re still a stingy bastard, Dean. Tell me, did being a tight-ass with your heart protect you from heartbreak?”

The word broke something open inside his chest.  _Heartbreak_. That’s what he had seen on his face. So that’s what the whole flashback episode was about.  _Dean Winchester, a portrait of heartbreak. A Lifetime Original._

“One more,” Jo said, as Dean groaned in frustration. “Last one, I promise” she chirped, and took him firmly by the arm again.

They arrived in Dean’s recent memory. It was the hunt gone wrong with Cas last month. The moment he had fucked it all up and the reason he was running right now, in fact. They were in a motel room. Tipsy past-Dean had a hand on the door just above Cas’ shoulder. Cas was standing close (of course) and breathing heavily.

“I don’t need any help remembering this, thanks!” snapped Dean.

Jo pulled on her toughest face and crossed her arms. “This time watch Cas’ face, not yours, dumbass,” she shot back.

Cas didn’t retreat from Dean as his gaze raked Cas’ lips. Present-day Dean flushed at how obvious he was. Had he always been so obvious? Then-Dean closed the remaining space and Now-Dean had a front row seat to Cas’ face as they shared their first kiss.

His eyes fluttered closed in pleasure. A small whimper escaped his lips that turned into a groan as then-Dean pressed him against the door. His lids snapped open and now-Dean was treated to the dark blue of Cas’ eyes in the moonlight for just a second before Cas whirled Dean around.

Things were happening too fast. Now-Dean’s chest constricted as he remembered feeling completely overwhelmed. As he watched, he knew pleasure and desire were battling with fear and weakness. Then-Dean broke off the kiss, chest heaving with passion or panic, take your pick. His eyes were startlingly wide as he stared at Cas.

Dean remembered exactly what had been going through his head at that moment.  _This will end bloody or messy or both. You’ll be abandoned, or someone will mourn, or you will fail him, or your will hurt him. This would never be real, could never be real. Honey I’m home making dinner adopting a kitten or God forbid, a child, wearing sweaters going on vacations, holding hands…_

“Stop. I can’t.” Then-Dean’s voice was quiet but harsh in silence. Cas pulled away so they were no longer touching. He turned away from the door so he was facing now-Dean, who observed with a sick clench of his gut. “I can’t do this,” said then-Dean to Cas.

Cas’ face flinched for a moment in hurt. But it immediately smoothed into disappointment and…resignation? Cas looked almost as if he had expected it. Like he knew Dean would let him down. Then-Dean was talking, babbling out some excuse, trying to explain. Cas rearranged his features into the impassive mask he usually wore, though, and disappeared. Then-Dean trailed off mid-sentence, alone in the empty motel room. Now-Dean clutched his stomach. It was twisting with shame.

Dean felt hot tears of regret sting his eyes. “I can’t take this anymore. Fly me back.”

Jo tipped her hat, and the light emanating from her head shone out all around them, blinding Dean.

When he was able to make out his surroundings, blinking madly, he was back in the motel from hell. An irresistible drowsiness pulled him towards the bed. He flopped on it, fully clothed, and sleep claimed him.  


	5. Stave Three: The Second of the Three Spirits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A big white horse stood outside his window. Atop it, resplendent in velvet green Renaissance-style gowns, sat Charlie Bradbury, her auburn hair long again and styled with a circlet crown of twisted gold. She haughtily peered down at Dean. “Hop on, Handmaiden,” she ordered, tacking a crooked smile on at the end.

The clack of hooves were the first sound to penetrate Dean’s dreamless sleep. “Huh?” he snuffled into his pillow as he canted his ear towards the motel window. The unmistakable sound of a horse blowing air through its mouth? Nose? Whatever, Dean wasn’t really a rural kind of guy, cowboy fantasies notwithstanding. Anyway, that was definitely a horse within earshot of his room. He groggily pushed himself up off his stomach and stumbled towards the window. It was still open, cigarette-scented curtains waving in the sharp December Kansas wind. Dean peered out, wiping sleep from his eyes. Yep, that was a horse all right.

A big fucking white horse stood outside his window. Atop it, resplendent in velvet green Renaissance-style gowns, sat Charlie Bradbury, her auburn hair long again and styled with a circlet crown of twisted gold. She haughtily peered down at Dean. “Hop on, Handmaiden,” she ordered, tacking a crooked smile on at the end.

Dean eyed the horse warily. Again, he was more comfortable around engines than livestock. “Uh, I don’t really…” he began weakly.

“Shut up, bitch. Atreyu can smell fear.” Charlie said, suppressing laughter. She pat the horse’s flank behind her, indicating where he should sit. She extended the hand to assist him up.

Dean was expecting an embarrassing interlude that would rack up a lot of hits on YouTube (He could picture the headline now: Dad vs. Horse, Who Would Win?) Instead, the instant Charlie’s hand touched his, he felt the same weightlessness Jo’s touch had bestowed upon him. In a blink, he was seated, comfortably if not confidently, astride the brilliant white horse. Bow-leggedness had its advantages at times.

Charlie leaned forward in the saddle. “Engage.” she whispered with a smile in Atreyu’s ear, and they were off, flying through the air back to the bunker.

Dean tried not to enjoy it but it was hard, grasping Charlie’s warm green robes, watching the countryside float past in the darkness below. He had always hated airplanes but this felt almost nice. Secure. Maybe it was just Charlie. He adjusted his grip on her waist.

“Don’t get fresh, cowboy” Charlie teased, glancing back at him enough to wink. Dean grinned. Damn. He had really missed her.

“I wouldn’t dare.” he solemnly replied. He swallowed.  _Stingy_. The word ricocheted around inside his head, fresh from his encounter with Jo and his trip down memory lane. “I, uh, really” Dean took a breath. “Missed you, Charlie,” he finished haltingly.  _See? He could use his words like a grown-up._

Charlie threw a knowing look over his shoulder. “Enjoy the clip show, did ya?” Dean avoided her gaze. “Yeah, Jo can come on a little strong. You should know, though; Bobby told her to not take it too easy on you. That’s how she got chosen for that part of the mission. I wanted to do the flashback sequence but he thought I’d be too nice.” Charlie scoffed. “As if.”

She whispered a command for Atreyu to come out of Warp and they descended. “You know the drill here, right?” Dean loved that about Charlie. She never acted like he was dumb. And she was almost as allergic to chick flick moments as he was.

Dean swallowed. “Yeah. Ghost of Christmas present, right?” She nodded and they hit solid ground, Atreyu smoothly trotting to a stop in front of the bunker door.

“Ladies first,” Charlie said, indicating the door. Dean rolled his eyes and opened it. They descended the stairs together, unnoticed. The scene was exactly as Dean had left it earlier in the night. An assortment of found and recycled ornaments adorned the Christmas tree’s branches. Lights were evenly distributed throughout the branches, except for where Sam had obviously tired of detangling them. A large knot of lights clumped in the back, where Sam probably figured no one would see them. Dean bit back an affectionate smile.

Dean’s eyes were immediately drawn to Cas. He was the brightest thing in any room. His posture was unusually relaxed back in his chair, which was pushed back from the table so he could watch Jack by the tree. He had loosened his tie, and gripped a beer bottle’s neck loosely in a hand. His eyes were wide and warm, focused on Jack.

Jack was stringing popcorn with an intensity and focus Dean associated with Cas. Dean noticed the needle in use had been liberated from their medical stash, probably last used to give someone stitches. Jack’s tongue was sticking out slightly as he aimed the needle toward the center of a kernel. Dean’s chest tightened in that predictable way when he thought about the nephilim and his relationship with his chosen father.

Sam sat at the war table. He leaned back, jamming his chopsticks with finality into a take-out container, and pushed his chair back, humming in satisfaction. Dean peered into the white box with Chinese characters on it, frowning at the veggie tofu dish inside. “Typical” Dean muttered, under his breath. Charlie elbowed him.

Cas took this as his cue, and pushed his chair back. He cleared his throat, looking at Jack, who dropped his craft project. “I’d like to propose a toast,” began Cas formally. Dean couldn’t help smiling.  _What a dork_ , he thought. He could practically hear the air quotes.

Sam looked surprised, then amused. He picked up his own beer bottle and waited for Cas to continue. Cas looked at Jack and raised an eyebrow, waiting. A few seconds ticked by before Jack picked up his own beer bottle, looking sideways at Sam to copy him. Dean was grinning now. That was just fucking adorable. Not like when Jack was trying to learn by imitating Dean. His grin slipped a little at the memory of how hard he had pushed Jack away at first.

Cas nodded, satisfied now that all members of their little party were participating in this social ritual. “To Dean,” Cas began. Dean’s mouth fell open in shock. Cas was still talking. “Even though he wasn’t able to be here tonight, he’s in our hearts. Always.” Cas raised his bottle a bit at this and made to drink when Sam interjected loudly:

“In our hearts?!” Sam’s eyebrows had disappeared into his hairline. “I wish he was here right now. I’d serve him a piece of my mind.” Sam scoffed. “Shit, I’d shove it down his throat.”

“Sam!” Cas said in a warning tone, cutting his eyes at Jack who was watching, nervous and confused. “It’s Christmas.”

“Yeah, yeah.” said Sam, running his fingers through his hair in a familiar gesture of frustration. “Just another Winchester holiday to remember; drinking a toast to a cowardly, weak man who ran out on his family.” He was as angry as Dean had ever seen him, lips pursed, pacing up and down in front of the tree, clenching his beer bottle tightly.

Cas put out a placating hand and repeated: “Sam. Christmas.” in a gentle voice.

Sam raked his hair back from his face, stopping his route in front of Jack. “I’ll drink to Dean for your sake and for Jack’s” said Sam, indicating them both with his beer bottle, “but not for his. A very Merry Christmas, big bro, wherever you slunk off to.”

Sam tipped his bottle up and Jack and Cas followed his lead, subdued.  
  
Dean’s face burned. How could Cas defend him like that? Why would Cas bother toasting Dean at all, like he was a worthy man, in the face of all evidence pointing to the contrary? He felt a flood of affection for his friend.

Dean felt Charlie’s elbow jostle his side again. “Aw. That was cute.” Charlie’s words held real affection. Dean gazed at Cas, who in turn was beaming at Jack, hanging up grody old socks for Santa. “You’re in his heart!” she practically squee-d, smacking his arm. Dean blushed furiously and looked away.

The truth was, Cas deserved better. He always had, and recent events did nothing to convince Dean otherwise. Why wouldn’t Cas get the hint and move on? Maybe he just needed time. Time away from Dean. Time to listen to Sam’s fairly accurate assessment of Dean’s strength and courage when it came to emotional intimacy.

But what if he didn’t move on? “What will happen to Cas?” Dean asked Charlie suddenly. Now that the worry had entered his head, he found it impossible to forget. Dean could always run; he had the Impala, he had hunting, he had alcohol and one-night stands and long- and short-cons and violence. He had Sam. In short, Dean had a lifetime of experience with unhealthy coping mechanisms for heartbreak and loss. Cas had no such practice.

Charlie just gave him a look of pity and understanding. “C’mon” she urged, dragging him up the stairs. Dean gave one last look at the trio around the tree, now exchanging presents wrapped in old magazine paper. He caught a flash of Cas’ teeth as he smiled broadly at the assorted-flavored Osage honey sticks Jack had bought him at a convenience store in the Ozarks. The metal door of the bunker clanged, cutting off the beautiful sight of that smile.

With a snort and a whoosh, Atreyu bore them aloft and they landed in a field outside the bunker. Charlie dismounted with an imperious air. She strode away from Dean a few paces. “I want to show you something” she said, grimly.

She whisked her green velvet skirts out of the way to reveal two tiny figures huddled by her legs. One was a person of extremely advanced age: emaciated skin dotted with skin sores, balding head peppered with white stringy hair, mouth puckered with toothless gums, hands tipped with claw-like yellowed nails, eyes cloudy with cataracts. “This is loneliness” Charlie intoned.

The other was an emaciated young teen, bright red scars lining their arms and legs. Their eyes were red with tears and their hair was greasy and unwashed. They were curled in on themselves, clutching their stomach and rocking themselves. “And this is self-loathing” Charlie said carefully, piercing Dean with a knowing gaze.

Dean moved on instinct. He rushed forward to help, but Charlie halted him with a ghostly strong hand. “Can’t you save them?” he shouted at her angrily.

“Dean,” Charlie began in a mockingly cheerful tone sharper than any Dean had ever heard her use in life, “Better for them to be alone, to be the ones pushing others away, right?” Dean grit his teeth. He had never said those words aloud, had only thought them to himself every time he wanted to gather Cas in his arms.

Her face softened and she said “I know you like to pretend to be functionally illiterate but even you’ve heard the Tennyson quote. ‘Better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all.’”

Dean snorted in derision. “Yeah, that’s pretty much the opposite of my life motto.”

“No shit, Sherlock.” Again, Charlie threw his words back at him. “Why do you think I’m doing this for Bobby? We’re trying to get through to you, bitch.” She rolled her eyes dramatically, re-covering the shrunken nightmare figures below her skirts.

Dean retorted ‘I’m as free as a bird, now, and this bird you cannot change.” He crossed his arms across his chest with a defiance he did not feel.

Charlie’s look was pure pity. “Did you really just quote ‘Free Bird?’ What’s next? You going to tell me how when it’s time for leaving you hope I’ll understand that you were born a ramblin’ man?” She stage-whispered, “Do you ever think learning about love and relationships exclusively from your grief-addled father and classic rock lyrics might not have given you the healthiest outlook?”

Dean meant to sigh dramatically, to cast his eyes skyward, to give a witty retort, preferably with a nerdy pop-culture reference. Instead, he found himself reaching forward to pull Charlie into a hug. To press his lips into her red hair, to tell her just how much she meant to him. Just as his arms extended, she abruptly disappeared. A glance behind him showed Atreyu was toast, too. And now he was choked up with the loss of her.

He saw the glint of light off metal across the field had Dean prepared to flee. As the figure drew closer, Dean relaxed, if only minutely. It was a woman with a glorious crown of black curls, perfectly painted red lips lips, and a leather jacket Dean could find himself coveting. It was Billie.  _Death_


	6. Stave Four: The Last of the Three Spirits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean balled his fists. What a bunch of assholes, talking about Cas and Jack like that. “Enough.” Dean firmly said. “I’ve seen the damn movie. It’s not a mystery who they’re talking about. You can skip the dramatic cemetery reveal. I just don’t see why I should care what these losers think, anyway.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m still very new to writing fan fiction, and I’m not 100% on the formatting, etc. But the last thing I would want to do is inadvertently hurt someone. So some warnings. If you are familiar with the Dickens source text, you’ll know, this chapter is the worst because it has to be the bleakest vision of the future that inspires the character change. So I had to be really, really mean to our boys. I based the vision of Cas on Future!Cas but bleaker. So: implied drug abuse, multiple sexual partners, dubious consent, vampire/blood play, Dominant tones (not like consensual loving D/s dynamic but like Cas is an abusive asshole) I don’t like it but I had to make it so horrible Dean wouldn’t like it either!
> 
> Also this is the most explicit thing I’ve ever written and it’s a) horrible and b) not that explicit, but probably a Mature rating? Rated R? YMMV (do the youths on the interwebs still say that?)
> 
> Also, it’s like the chapter where Scrooge sees what happens when he dies so, like, major character death? But the good news is, it’s short and it’s temporary (’cause it’s like a dream/vision) and the happy stuff is coming up next! That said, I probably didn’t catch all possible warnings in this series. Proceed with caution. On with the story!

Billie stalked across the field towards Dean, her face grim. Silent, she stopped an arm’s length from him. Dean swallowed nervously. “So…ghost of Christmas future?” he asked. Billie nodded once, tersely. Wordlessly, she turned and strode away. 

Dean hustled to follow, finding himself strangely unnerved by Billie. He had been in her presence before, but their little ‘talk’ then had been more collegiate. Something about her manner during this rodeo had Dean’s legs trembling in her presence. She was clearly not Billie, here for a chat. This was  _Death_ , and  _don’t you dare forget it, mister._

“C’mon, Billie,” Dean attempted weakly. “I never expected the silent treatment from  _you_ , of all the women in my life.” The lame attempt at humor fell like a stone in the freezing air. 

Billie halted so suddenly Dean found himself running into her black leather duster. She turned enough for him to see the whites of her eyes. She jerked her head once, urging him on.“Fine,” Dean muttered. “Let’s get this show on the fucking road” he said, and followed her without further question. 

As they walked, the surrounding wheat field stubble grew and transformed until they walked through the interior of a dive bar. Dean looked at the row of barstools, occupied by plaid-and-boot-clad hunters. Some at the long wooden bar he recognized, others were strangers. 

Billie stopped near a cluster of three men near the jukebox. A stained glass light above them shed a beam of light that made their features harsh and grotesque. Dean drew close to listen.

“No,” said a large man with numerous chins. “I don’t know much about it, either. I just know he’s dead.”

“When did he die” asked a young man with olive skin and a teenager’s scruff.

“Last night, I believe.”

“What got him?” asked a third, taking a long draw from the mug of beer in front of him. “I thought he’d never die.” The ginger hunter’s milky eyes were beady and deep-set, and shifted side to side as he spoke.

“Same,” said the first man, with a yawn.

“What happened to all his gear?” asked the young teen, greasy black hair obscuring his greedy eyes.

“I haven’t heard,” said chins, yawning again. “Left it to his brother, I guess. He didn’t leave it to us. That’s all I know.” The gathered hunters laughed weakly. “In any case,” the big man continued. “It’s gonna be a small wake.” He looked around at the gathered audience, flushed with the attention he was now receiving. “Who’d go to it? Unless the drinks are on the house? Amiright?”

“I don’t mind going if there’s food,” admitted beady eyes, who had a narrow jaw and a prominent blonde brow, “but I think their pet angel and its freak kid’ll be there.” Another laugh met this proclamation.

Dean balled his fists. What a bunch of assholes, talking about Cas and Jack like that. “Enough.” Dean firmly said. “I’ve seen the damn movie. It’s not a mystery who they’re talking about. You can skip the dramatic cemetery reveal. I just don’t see why I should care what these losers think, anyway.”

Billie fixed him with another mute stare and beckoned with a perfectly manicured nail on her hand not holding the scythe. Dean shuddered under her stare, then shuffled along behind her with trepidation.She led them down a sour-smelling damp hallway to the bar’s bathrooms, which transformed around him to the tiled hallways of the bunker. All the rooms’ doors were open, and strange voices echoed throughout the hallways. Anxious, Dean quickened his pace, but ground to a sudden halt when he entered the library.

Dozens of hunters had invaded their bunker. Boxes were strewn about with writing in marker on them, writing which Dean recognized as Sam’s. Weapons covered the table, each with a tag attached. A pile of clothes sat in one corner, plaid shirts, jeans, and shoes all laid out in neat rows on a blanket. A large poster advertised Men of Letters artifacts and magical items, with photos and list prices, while the actual items remained locked safely away. 

In the milling crowd disinterestedly handling his personal stuff, Dean spotted his gargantuan brother, face still as he walked through the crowd. As he moved among the other hunters, he occasionally stopped to answer a question, or accept a word of sympathy, a hand on the arm, or an exchange of cash. His eyes remained distant, never meeting anyone else’s directly. Dean could see Sam’s jaw muscle twitching intermittently from across the room.

Dean felt the blood drain from his face. His skin broke out in a thin sheen of cold sweat. “Sam?” he asked, hoarsely. “Why would you do this, Sam?” Dean grabbed Billie’s arm. “What the fuck, Billie?!” He tried to turn her to face him, but her face was as cold and still as stone. “Why is Sam selling my stuff?”

Billie actually opened her mouth to reply, but just then a terrible thought pierced Dean like an icicle through his heart. He sprinted, faster than he had ever humped it through the woods at night on a hunt, to the bunker’s garage.

He crashed through the door, his legs protesting and chest burning. There sat Baby, sleek and black. A silver-haired female hunter sat smugly in the driver’s seat, running her hand appreciatively across the dash. Outside the open door, a line of hunters were waiting for their chance to check her out. Dean approached, heartsick, until he was close enough to read the sign on her windshield. “ _$18,000 OBO_ ” read the sign, again in Sam’s hand. Dean craned his neck, searching the garage. All the cars and motorcycles had similar signs.  _What. The. Fuck._

Dean shuffled back through the hall, heedless of the hunters and Billie. On autopilot, his feet carried him to the kitchen, where he had always found comfort. No strangers sullied this sanctum. Cas and Jack were there, though. They were huddled around a large table in the middle of the room where a body lay covered with a white sheet. Cas’ face was drawn and seemed paler than normal. Jack’s was open and caught between curiosity and confusion.

“But why is  _Sam_  leaving the bunker?” Jack was asking.

Cas pinched his nose between his long, beautiful fingers. “He’s grieving, Jack. The other times Dean…” Cas took a deep breath, then continued. “Sam wants out of the life. This is the end of the road for him.”

Jack cocked his head searchingly towards Cas. “And what about us?”

Cas’ shoulders slumped. He didn’t answer. Jack drew a breath to ask another question, but just then Cas slipped his trenchcoat off his shoulders. His mouth a grim line, he grasped the two tails and split it cleanly in two.

Jack’s face registered the same shock Dean felt. Cas did not relent. He used his angelic strength to rip the trench into long shreds. He then took the strips of fabric and bound the body on the table. He started with the feet and worked his way up. He didn’t pause in his work. When he reached the corpse’s head his hands hesitated, hovering over the sheet with tenderness. For a second Dean feared seeing his own dead body, but Cas pulled away at the last second. With resolve, he tied the head and torso with the last strips of his tattered tan garment.

Dean turned away from the scene, cheeks wet. He remembered doing the same for Cas, not so long ago. Billie materialized in the kitchen doorway. She crooked a single finger and Dean followed her, feet fumbling as his vision blurred with tears.

The bunker hallway dissolved into a darkened living room. Peeling floral wallpaper exposed moldy plaster. Piles of unidentifiable fabric lay in heaps on rough floorboards. A small camp stove sat, cold, in the middle of the room. Dean had never been here before, but he recognized it instantly. This was a nest.

Dean’s senses shifted into high alert, despite not really being  _here_ -here. He was in hunter mode, alert for danger. So he wasn’t startled when a figure shambled into the room. It was Cas, but not as Dean had ever known or seen him. The closest approximation Dean could think of was the future vision of 2014 Castiel he had seen at Camp Chitaqua. This Cas wasn’t all crystals and hemp-oil and linen, though. He was bearded, with long hair, and dressed in ratty jeans with a dirty t-shirt. He clutched a bottle of tequila in one hand and twirled a knife in the other. His eyes were unfocused, restless, and he looked around the room a bit as if searching for something before flopping into an orange corduroy recliner.  

Cas was still for so long, Dean was sure he had passed out or nodded off, at the very least. But when a figure slunk in the back door to the kitchen, Cas’ eyes opened instantly. Now alert and gripping his knife at the ready, he looked every inch of the warrior of heaven he had once been.

“That was a waste of time,” said a woman, shrugging out of a ankle-length down coat. She unwrapped the scarf covering her face and head and shook out her brown braids. She looked Cas up and down scathingly. “I see Vernon’s still not back.” Cas narrowed his eyes at her. She returned his glare and anted up an eyebrow raise of her own. “Heaven’s all abuzz,” she continued in a breathy tone that reminded Dean uncomfortably of Meg. “Seems Jack’s been busting heads among the grey suits, working his way up the ladder.”

Cas took a long draw of tequila, wincing at the burn before acknowledging her words. “Kid’s not my problem anymore.”

“Don’t I know it,” she said, pulling a mustard-yellow sweater off smoothly over her head and tossing it onto one of the piles on the floor. “But it seems he thinks your  _his_.” She unbuttoned her jeans and pulled those off as well. Dean’s mouth feel open at her casual disrobing; their obvious intimacy. She stood in a black camisole and greying cotton underwear, hands on her hips as she regarded Cas. He studiously ignored her. “He’s getting closer. I’d  _hate_  for him to find out where you are.” she added, not at all sounding sorry about that prospect.

Cas finally looked into her eyes. “I’ll give you what you want, Mariah.” His voice was cold and harsh.

She nodded, looking eager now. She walked up to him and stood in the vee between his spread legs. He raised his hands and rested them on her thick thighs. “But my price remains the same.” Cas said simply, voice soft yet somehow threatening. Dean found himself recoiling at the veiled threat in the words.

Mariah’s mouth fell open. “I’m the one doing you a favor!” she protested. “You give me some grace, and our brothers and sisters, including your freak stepson, can’t sense you.” She popped out a hip, indignant.

Cas gave her a predatory smile. “And the fact that  _you_ , a graceless, fallen angel on the cusp of death, need  _my_  borrowed grace to survive…” he trailed off, raising both hands in a shrug. “That’s just a bonus?” He slumped back in the chair. “No. I don’t think so. Payment’s the same. If you want it, work for it.” His voice was hard, the syllables clipped.

Mariah’s eyes burned him, but she sank to her knees in front of him, hands on his jean-clad thighs. She mouthed at his fly and Cas’ eyes fluttered shut. He slugged more liquor as she inched his zipped down and began drawing his cock out into the frigid air of the abandoned house.

Dean stood frozen in place, unable to process the scene in front of him. Cas was so desperately broken. So cruel. At the same time, this was the first time Dean had seen Cas’ cock and it was distracting as hell. He was simultaneously aroused and heartbroken and scared. Whatever was going on here, Cas was clearly not okay. Dean wanted to help, but knew this was just a vision; what could he do?

The sounds of Mariah’s blow job became even more distracting when Cas’ moans of pleasure joined them in the silent night air. Dean actually closed his eyes and grit his teeth to prevent becoming more turned on than he already was. This was not the time or place. Luckily, the proceedings were soon interrupted by another party entering the little clubhouse of horror.

“Honey, I’m home!” called a cloying voice. A tall man with light brown hair entered the room, and looked entirely unfazed at the scene of Cas and Mariah in flagrante delicto. “I cannot believe you two started the Christmas party without me!” Cas’ eyes flew open and he gave the man a withering look. Mariah pulled off with a soft pop and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

“Don’t start, Vern. He’s in  _A Mood_ ,” she pouted, sitting back on her heels. The intruder shrugged, flinging off his leather jacket.

“I told you not to mention that stupid pagan rip-off fake commercial holiday to me,” Cas said haughtily. His words were harsh but there was no fire behind them. In fact, he seemed to regard Vernon with something approaching affection, taking in his long, bowed legs and lightly freckled cheeks in a weighty stare. Cas didn’t seem embarrassed at his erect cock sticking out of his jeans.

“Whatever” scoffed Vernon. He pitched his voice conspiratorially to Mariah. “He gets like this every year. It’s because of _Dean_.” This last word stretched into a few singsong syllables. Mariah looked interested.

“Was that his name?” She reached a hand forward to touch Cas’ thigh again, almost tender, but he shoved her away, pretty harshly, in fact, which surprised Dean. Cas was staring at Vernon. Dean gulped. He expected Cas’ eyes to burn blue, for this Vern to get smote into the next county, but no angelic light burned bright. Instead Cas growled, “I told you I never wanted to hear that name come out of your fucking mouth ever again.”

Vern gave Cas a cocky smile. “Guess you’d better shut me up, then,” he said, his suggestive intent crystal clear. Faster than Dean’s eyes could track, Cas rose from the chair without warning and crossed the distance to Vern in a couple of quick strides, shoving him back on a mattress littering the floor. Dean’s eyes widened as he took in the sight of Cas just absolutely wrecking Vern, hands and mouth all over him. It would be hot as hell if it weren’t disturbing and wrong and sad. After a few moments, Mariah walked over to join them on the mattress, the three of their bodies entwining in a routine that was clearly well-practiced. Dean couldn’t stand this. He pressed his eyes shut and breathed deeply, trying to block out the sounds of wet skin slapping together, the moans and grunts from the dirty pallet on the floor. He felt cold metal at his jaw and opened his eyes. Billie’s scythe rest along his face. She did not look absent of compassion as she used the blade to nudge his face back toward the scene in front of him. Why did she want him to watch this? What kind of sick fuck did she take him for?

Just then, Vern opened his mouth, which was was pressed against Cas’ neck, and Dean understood what he was still meant to see. Dean caught a flash of two rows of sharply pointed teeth just before Vernon clamped down on Cas’ neck, drawing blood. Dean darted forward on impulse, fists balling instinctively to beat the vamp off his angel. The flat of Billie’s blade rest against his chest as she yanked him back with it, freezing his body in place with her power. Seconds later, Cas climaxed with a guttural groan and a blue flash of grace shifted from him to both Vern and Mariah, and they followed suit.

As the three lovers sunk, limp, away from one another into the mattress, Dean turned away once again, sickened. Dean had his answer now. He had always protected his own heart. He knew how to survive loss and grief. He never thought about how Cas would respond; how he would cope with a broken heart.

Dean’s eyes found Billie’s and he whispered, “undo this.” He took her black leather lapels in his hands, dug his fingers in and begged. “I don’t care about my own life, but you can not do this to Cas.”

Billie shook her head slowly. “I didn’t do this to him, Dean. You did.”

Dean sank to his knees in front of Death, still clutching her coat reflexively. “I promise. I’ll do right by him, Billie. I won’t hide anymore.” Dean realized he was shouting desperately. “I’ll try. I’ll be brave. I’m not afraid anymore.” Dimly, he realized he was sobbing rather than speaking. He leaned his head forward to rest it on Billie’s feet, but his head hit the ground, and her jacket was empty in his hands. Dean lifted it to his face, repeating “I’m not afraid anymore,” over and over again, until he realized the material wasn’t worn leather but the scratchy faded blue acrylic of the motel bed’s blanket.


	7. Stave Five: The End of It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m not afraid anymore” Dean whispered, his voice scratchy, as he scrambled out of bed. “Thank you Jo, thank you Charlie, thank you Billie!” Dean closed his eyes, overcome with feeling. “Oh, Bobby, thank you so much! That was the best night with three women from my past I could ever have imagined.”

Yes! The scratchy blanket was in the motel bed in Colby, Kansas. The roach was still under the covers, and the floorboards were still peeking out from the ancient shag carpeting. The nicotine-stained drapes fluttered in the frigid air. Best of all, Dean was back in his original time, to make his own future with his own free will. **  
**

“I’m not afraid anymore” Dean whispered, his voice scratchy, as he scrambled out of bed. “Thank you Jo, thank you Charlie, thank you Billie!” Dean closed his eyes, overcome with feeling. “Oh, Bobby, thank you so much! That was the best night with three women from my past I could ever have imagined.”

Dean ran to the open window and saw Baby, tucked safely in her parking spot in front of the room. “Oh, she’s still here!” he cried. “She’s here: I’m here: that bullshit future can still be changed!”

After a brisk shower and shave, Dean stumbled around the room, haphazardly gathering the meager supplies he had brought in. He located his keys under the nightstand. He gave the cold pizza a wide berth (fearing bugs, or worse had indeed snacked on it). He scooped up his now-dead cell phone (he had forgotten his charger in the car) and the motel key.

On the way to the office he realized he had no clue what day it was. He couldn’t figure out how long his travels with the ghosts had taken. A teen-aged girl, likely the owner’s daughter, sat behind the registration desk, aggressively tapping the screen of her phone. Her long, stringy hair obscured her face, and she didn’t look up when Dean dropped the key in front of her. “Uh, excuse me,” Dean began. “What day is it?”

She looked at him with the contempt only teens can muster for anyone over the age of 30. “Dude. It’s Christmas Day?”

Dean laughed. The young woman startled, shaking her head at his borderline hysteria. Dean pushed his room key at her. “Merry Christmas,” he said, before taking another look around the office, noting the small Hindu symbol on the door to the family’s residence. “Uh…” he began awkwardly. Shit. He hadn’t meant to offend her. “I mean, if you celebrate.” he finished lamely.

The girl just smiled. “Don’t worry. Most of the hicks out here don’t even think twice about assuming. And we do the whole tree-and-presents thing.” She gave him an appraising glance before ducking her head back to her phone. “You, too. You know, if you celebrate.” She didn’t look back up at him, but Dean grinned broadly, pushing open the glass door, bell tinkling as he headed into the icy blast of December morning air.

At this rate, he wouldn’t return to the bunker until mid-morning, so Dean took time to grab some waffles. No sense in showing up with low blood sugar. Then he made a stop in Hutchinson for a few supplies.

He hummed along to the radio, thumbs tapping the wheel of the Impala as he floored it heading East on I-70. He caught a glance of his face in the rearview and almost didn’t recognize his shining eyes, flushed cheeks, toothy grin. His heart was beating quickly with excitement, but it wasn’t anxious. Dean felt strangely at peace. He had made his decision, and one way or another, the stupid stuck-ness of his life was going to change today.

Perhaps as a result of some kind of twisted Pavlovian conditioning, however, things had changed by the time Dean pulled Baby into the bunker’s garage. He hadn’t tried to text or call anyone this morning, and they were liable to still be pissed, seeing how he had acted last night. He felt shame crawling up his spine, and the accompanying defensive, fearful wave of anger. “I’m not afraid, Bobby,” he whispered in the quiet of the car. He jangled one leg for a long minute, and realized if he sat here he was going to chicken out. Storm in and bluster and pretend nothing had happened, pout and punish his loved ones. Or worse, drive right back out and find the nearest bar open early morning for those getting off 3rd shift.

No. Today was about changing all of that. He took a deep breath and tried some pop psychology ‘reframing’ technique Sam had told him about once upon a time, when shit had been really bad. “I fucked up,” said Dean to himself in the dark garage. “But I am not a fuck-up.” Dean squeezed his hands around the wheel one more time and opened the door before he could second-guess himself. He grabbed his loot out of the trunk and strode purposefully into the bunker.

Dropping off his duffel in his room, Dean smelled an acrid, charred smell in the hallways. He poked his head in the kitchen, taking in the absolute wreck of dishes and pans. Someone had attempted (and failed, spectacularly, by the look of the blackened pan and smoke lingering in the air) to make pancakes. Three bowls of cereal sat, half empty, abandoned on the table. Dean sighed. Priority after his peace offerings would be making these assholes a decent Christmas Day brunch.

He rounded the corner to the war room and found the trio near their positions he had left them in last night. Jack was pulling an orange (Sam’s doing, no doubt) out of his stocking. Sam was sprawled in a chair in his pajamas, watching with a small smile. Cas stood to the side, silent and watchful. He was inexplicably down to just the white shirt and the blue tie was loosened around his neck. He stiffened visibly at the sight of Dean. Dean, in turn, swallowed hard. It wasn’t exactly fair of Cas to be here, practically naked with his shirt sleeves rolled up.  _Forearm porn_ , thought Dean, unable to stop the words from entering his head.

Sam cleared his throat and Dean realized he had been standing there for a long moment, just staring at Cas and his damn arms.  _Well, Sam ought to be used to it by now_ , thought Dean. His thoughts were interrupted by six-and-a-half feet of his brother hugging him warmly. Dean hung on gratefully, and didn’t let go until Sam did first. “Merry Christmas, Sam,” Dean said. He thrust a package at him. Sam raised his eyebrows in question, but Dean just jerked his chin, indicating he should open it.

Sam tore into the packaging. He stopped, abruptly, raising his eyes to stare at Dean, who returned it innocently. Then Sam broke into laughter. He shook his head. “Are you,” he began, wheezing for breath in between peals, “making fun of me, dude?”

Dean shook his head quickly. “No! No, man. I swear. The woman at the store said this was the best shit for hair or whatever.” He had spent an inordinate amount of time in the salon outlet’s hair product aisle until a sales representative took pity on him and helped him select a 5-in-1 styling cream and dry shampoo they assured Dean would change his long-locked friend’s life. For the amount he had thrown down on the paltry amount of product, they’d better, he thought, not without some bitterness. Sam just beamed at him, with just a hint of suspicion.

“Okay.” Sam clapped him on the shoulder. “Thanks, Dean.”

Dean approached Jack. The nephilim was still hovering near his stocking, shoving a candy bar into his mouth. Apparently Santa had remembered to bring Jack some nougat. Dean glanced at his brother, who gave a half shrug and indicated Cas subtly with his head. Of course. Cas really took the whole stepdad thing seriously with Jack.

The kid was eyeing Dean warily, clearly expecting another outburst. Dean put out a hand, palm down, like you would approach a wild animal. “Hey, Merry Christmas, Jack,” he said softly, then fell silent. Best intentions aside, Dean wasn’t exactly good with the whole using-his-words thing and he didn’t have much practice or experience at this. Preferring to let actions do his talking for him, he scrabbled behind him for the package he had left there on the table. He passed it to Jack, who looked Dean for a long moment before unwrapping it, ripping into the wrapping much as Sam had done.

“Thank you, Dean,” Jack said automatically, then sat with the present in his lap, unmoving. Dean’s stomach sunk. Damn. The kid was madder than he thought. Dean rubbed the back of his neck with a hand. “It’s cool, I didn’t really know what you wanted, I just-”

“What is it?” asked Jack, wide eyes searching Dean’s without guile.  _Oh._

Dean grinned. “It’s a skateboard. You stand on it, and it rolls along, and…” he trailed off, feeling suddenly stupid. Dean hadn’t exactly been a skater himself, but they were popular back in his high school days, and for some reason when he pictured Jack, all lanky limbs and barely-contained energy, it just seemed right.

“Why?” Jack asked, seriously wanting to know the answer, obviously not trying to be a dick. Dean didn’t really have a good response. Why, indeed? “Uh, it’s fun,” said Dean, shrugging helplessly. “And kinda cool. Chicks dig ‘em.”

Jack was still doing his best Cas impression, all stoic impassivity. In fact, Cas was currently narrowing his eyes at Dean from what he could see out of the corner of his eye. Dean hurriedly added, “I never really got good, but I know the basics. I could teach you. If you want.”

Dean didn’t even have to turn to feel Sam beaming at them. Again, Dean couldn’t really find the way to apologize to Jack. How do you say “sorry I rode your ass for having dead parents, but I’ll love you because I’m your family now.” The best he could do was “here’s a skateboard, wanna learn?”

Dean felt the shame prickle up his spine again and his reframing was quickly unraveling into  _you’re a fuckup_  territory again when he looked up and saw Jack’s face split into a wide smile. “Yes, Dean. I’d like you to teach me very much.” Dean nodded, stuffed his hand in his jacket pocket. He took a deep breath, and met Cas’ eyes.

They stood there forever, eyes locked. If Jack knew it was awkward as hell, he didn’t let on, and again, Sam, the poor, long-suffering bastard, had a lot of practice in ignoring this kind of thing.

“Hello, Dean.” Cas broke the silence first, so Dean met him halfway by taking two steps toward him, closing the distance but not so much so that they could touch. He didn’t need the distraction.

“Hey, Cas” Dean returned quietly. He wasn’t scared. He wasn’t. He was just feeling…careful. He hadn’t really thought this out. In the car he tried running through a few speeches but they all sounded too much like his usual bullshit or something out of a cheesy rom-com. Actions, not words, he thought. Okay.

“Merry Christmas, Cas,” said Dean, pulling his present out of his jacket pocket. It was a tiny black kitten, eyes barely open. Dean had struck out at Hutchinson’s better-known retail establishments before running into a woman giving away kittens in the Wal-Mart parking lot.

Cas tilted his head at Dean in confusion. Dean motioned for Cas to put out his hands, and Dean gently delivered the fluffy ball into his large palms. Cas looked at it for a long moment, holding it away from his body, before returning his blue eyes to Dean’s. “You got me a cat?”

Dean looked away, searching the ceiling for words. Nothing was written there, so he tried his best. “I know you like them.” He couldn’t really verbalize the tug he had felt, the visceral belief that Cas should have this kitten the second he laid eyes on it in that pickup truck bed, climbing over its siblings and mewling helplessly. “You can take her with you, or if you want, she can live here at the bunker.” Dean plowed on, relentless in the face of what seemed now his total humiliation. “I can take care of her when you need to go do, you know, angel stuff.” Dean looked at the floor to see if any better words were there. Nope. “If you want.” Dean repeated, lamely.

Cas wasn’t moving or saying anything so Dean was grateful, initially, that Sam broke the silence. “I thought you were allergic, Dean?” Yeah, leave it to his fucking detective brother to bring that up.

Dean rattled a box of pills in his other jacket pocket smugly in Sam’s face. “Allergy medication, dude.”

Sam gave him a classic bitchface. “I can’t believe you won’t let me get a dog and then you go and drag a cat in here.”

Cas looked between the two brothers. Tentatively, he pulled the kitten towards his body, cradling it against his chest. “She?” he asked, finally, searching Dean’s eyes for confirmation. Dean nodded, his eyes captured once again. Cas ran a hand over her head and back with his long, capable fingers, and she responded with a tiny purr, a small buzz of a thing. Cas’ mouth turned up at one corner and Dean had to look away. Unfortunately, that made him face Sam, who was regarding Dean with the smuggest expression ever.

“Can I hold her?” asked Jack, barely able to contain his fascination. Cas nodded and deposited the kitten into Jack’s waiting arms. Sam stood up, rolling his eyes.

“C’mon, Jack. I think we’ve got some milk in the kitchen. Maybe we can set her up a little spot of her own. She’ll need a litter box…” Sam’s voice trailed off down the hallway as he and Jack disappeared to go take care of Cat Things. Dean said a silent prayer of thanks to Sam for clearing them out of the room.

Dean wanted the kitten to say it for him, that he wanted Cas to stick around and that he wasn’t afraid of whatever this thing was between them anymore. But it looked like the feline peace offering wouldn’t be enough. Dean was going to need to actually, you know, express himself. This was hard enough without an audience.

“Thank you for the present, Dean.” Cas closed the distance between them this time, until he was in what Dean would historically have referred to as his “personal space.” Dean didn’t flinch. Time to kick it in the ass.

“I wanted to apologize for that night,” Dean said quickly, before he could chicken out. The silence ticked on between them. Dean took another breath and soldiered on. “I’m sorry I got scared and pushed you away.”

Cas scowled. “I’m not stupid, Dean.” Dean froze. He had pictured this somewhat differently. Maybe Cas would fall into his arms, grateful. Or maybe he’d misunderstand Dean. What he hadn’t pictured was this: understanding the situation perfectly and calling him on his bullshit.

“I’m sorry, too. I shouldn’t have left like that. I was disappointed and upset and…I should have stayed. I know you, Dean.” Cas was still talking, inconsiderate to Dean’s sudden course adjustment to whatever path he thought this whole thing was going to take. “You don’t let people in. I have to fight for every inch.” Cas searched Dean’s eyes. Dean felt small and exposed under those laser blue eyes.

“Cas-” Dean forced out around the lump that was growing in his throat.

“Let me finish. I’ve been thinking a lot about us. About our-” Cas’ voice stumbled a bit. “-friendship. And I’ve decided  _I_  want more.” Cas finished this little speech and waited, never moving his eyes from Dean’s face.

Dean nodded, resigned. Of course. He had been too much of a coward and avoided Cas for a month and left in a huff last night and Cas had moved on. This was a breakup speech.  _I want more_  was breakup-speak for  _you’re not enough for me_. He drew in a resigned breath. Cas continued.

“We  _both_  deserve more.” Cas’ voice was soft, yet firm.

“I agree.”  _Shitshitshitshit_  was a constant buzz in Dean’s brain.

Cas moved closer and took Dean by the elbow. “Which is why I’m not going to leave like that again.”

Dean’s mouth fell open. Wait, what?

“Next time you ‘freak out’” Cas used his free hand to make the air quotes with his fingers. “I’ll stay until we figure it out.” He moved his hand from Dean’s elbow to shoulder, pulling him closer yet. “If you need space, I’ll give it to you. But I’m not going anywhere.” His eyes bored into Dean’s, and the certitude Dean saw there sent shivers down his spine.

Thoughts whirled in Dean’s head, competing to fly out of his mouth, but nothing came. Instead, he did the only thing that made sense; the only thing that seemed to adequately express what he wanted to say, and closed the scant distance between his lips and Cas’.

The kiss started off soft, little more than a gentle press of lip on lip. Sober this time, Dean was able to appreciate the sensations. Cas was warm in front of him, and he smelled absolutely divine, some heady combination of evergreen and snow.

Dean pulled back. “This okay, Cas?” he breathed, raising a hand to gently cup Cas’ cheek. Cas nodded and surged back in, turning his head slightly so their lips fit together better.

Dean meant to take things slow; he really did. But somehow their kisses transformed from gentle and tentative to rough and urgent in the matter of moments. Dean had his hands wrapped around Cas’ head, digging his fingers into the dark strands of hair there. Cas had one hand around Dean’s shoulder and the other clutching his back, fingers dipping under his waistband. He pulled Dean into him firmly with a groan and Dean broke off the kiss, panting. “Wait,” he said, catching his breath.

Cas went stony and still under Dean’s hands. He quickly removed all points of contact between himself and Dean, but stood resolutely in front of him, waiting patiently. Dean couldn’t help but laugh helplessly. Of course. Cas thought he was having another ‘freak out.’

Dean caught Cas’ hand in his own, drawing him close again and capturing his earlobe in his mouth. “Hey,” he said, listening to Sam and Jack’s voices down the hallway in the sudden calm between them. “I just meant,” he continued, sucking and licking his way behind Cas’ ear and down his neck as Cas bared the long column of stubbled skin to Dean’s ministrations. “That we should probably take this somewhere more private,” he finished, licking the cleft in Cas’ chin, and capturing his plush bottom lip between his teeth.

Cas released a low noise halfway between a moan and a grown and pushed Dean away, holding him firmly by the hips. He nodded once, serious and intent, and abruptly headed down the hallway to the bunker’s bedrooms, dragging Dean after him.

———————————-

Dean was as good as his word, and more. To Castiel, who did not get his heart broken, he was a partner, friend, and lover. Dean didn’t change overnight; he was still taciturn, he still turned to anger too readily and used humor as a shield. But he no longer walked in weakness and fear. He loved his brother and his surrogate son, Jack, bravely and as fully as he knew how.

He never saw the ghosts of Bobby, Jo, or Charlie again on this plane. Billie he occasionally saw in a professional capacity, but that’s a story for another tale. Dean lived the rest of his days with Cas as though he were building a house of memories; each happy one a brick in the foundation of an imagined future together. Christmas, in particular, was an annual occasion for him to go all out, making the sappy most of the holiday.

Dean never said “honey, I’m home,” but they did fall into a comfortable domestic routine at the bunker. He often made dinner, not only for Cas, but for any number of loved ones and friends who cycled through Lebanon regularly. They raised their little black kitten together, even though she wasn’t allowed in bed due to Dean’s allergies. Kids were firmly off the menu, but they did do their best with Jack, showing him how to live in their liminal space between humanity and the Supernatural. As long as he found happiness, they didn’t really mind what Jack chose to do, but of course he joined them in the Family Business. Dean only wore sweaters when a case required them, but Cas favored them on cold winter days in the bunker, especially ugly ones he found at the local thrift shop. Vacations were hard to come by, between their lifestyle and Dean’s phobia of flying, but they did manage to travel quite a bit and steal plenty of pleasant moments of relaxation between hunts. As for holding hands, they did that plenty.


End file.
